


December 18

by VR_Trakowski



Series: Advent 2015 [18]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Advent Calendar, Angst, Ficlet, Gen, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 13:12:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5457677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VR_Trakowski/pseuds/VR_Trakowski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Traditions continue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	December 18

**Author's Note:**

> Explanation [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5333558).

It was time.  

Miles opened the battered box, cutting through the latest layer of years’ worth of tape, and parted the old-fashioned excelsior.  A few shreds scattered on the table as his fingers dug deeper, and he supposed they could be replaced with something tidier, but somehow he never bothered.  

This was, after all, about tradition and memory.  

The porcelain figurine was fragile, but he held it firmly despite the fine tremor in his hands, and placed it carefully in the waiting stable.  He’d made the little wooden building himself--taking three weeks and cutting up his fingers to do it, because he was no woodworker.  But his wife had insisted.  

Miles sighed at the memory and set out another figure, and another, until the array was complete.  From small sheep to their shepherds, one ungainly and unnaturally-colored camel, the requisite three kings, and the Holy Family--all were there, all still whole despite the years.  

Granted, two of the kings were chipped and one sheep was missing an ear, but they were still beautiful, and he could remember back and back, doing this every year.  The people grew and aged and changed, but the ritual was the same.  

Miles closed the box and set it aside, straightening to look at his handiwork.  A small body pressed against his leg.  

“It’s so pretty, Gran’pere,” Philippa said, voice soft as if she feared to wake the sleeping Baby.

“It was your mother’s,” Miles answered, resting a hand on her bright head and remembering Mal’s delight, decades ago.

Philippa sighed.  “I miss her.”

Miles bent to gather her in.  “I, too,” he whispered, and closed his eyes.  


End file.
